


postcard to a half forgotten brother

by deepandlovelydark



Category: Il buono il brutto il cattivo | The Good The Bad and The Ugly (1966)
Genre: Blondie having a Sad, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Epistolary, Multi, Period-Typical Racism, actually it's pretty crude, mentioned only but still, mostly Tuco being horny for his partners, o what a neat tag A03 I'm having that, trio having a real fine time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-31 07:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21107798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepandlovelydark/pseuds/deepandlovelydark
Summary: In which Tuco keeps Pablo updated about the Trio's trail shenanigans.To a certain degree of "updated", that is.





	postcard to a half forgotten brother

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sybilius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybilius/gifts).

> Got a prompt for "write cowboys dancing around talking about FEELS" which v. relatable. 
> 
> It's set in the 1800s, cos. It's got the Trio hanging out together, because ??? why not.

"It's the future! No envelope, no messy sealing wax, just put a stamp like- so," and here Tuco sticks his tongue out at the stiff cardboard rectangle, more preoccupied by the awareness of how this looks to his intended audience than neatness as such, a teasing come-and-find me invitation for kisses from a white hat or a black one- hell, he doesn't care which. Both taste good to him, these days.

"Saves writing altogether if you shoot anybody who'd demand your attention," Angel Eyes says. His calculating, hawkish expression is refusing to be caught out in a laugh, so Tuco rolls his eyes and ignores him. 

"Seems a trifle public, doesn't it," Blondie says, the intoxicating thick whisper of his voice even huskier than usual. "Now if I were keeping up a correspondence, I'd want something a little more secret." 

"You _do _write letters though, I've seen you post them. Early as you wake up, it's not so early as me, _amigo." _If he even had to give Angel Eyes a weakness of his partner's, something like that- that Achilles heel that Angel had bored them wonderfully with over a campfire and grilled desert lizards cooked in their own skins- if he had to, an early start in the morning would do it. Getting Blondie to rise before the sun, might as well try to wake a skeleton. 

So a piece of stagy banter, nothing at all out of the ordinary, and Tuco's vastly surprised to see his partner's quick flush of sensitivity (hell, who would have guessed the Man _sin nombre_) would have any sensitivity left in his leathery leanness). Not so much that you could name a blush, but something's whipped up that devilishly cold skin to the warmth of morning coals. Shy, needing a little stirring up, but ready to burn and burn again once coaxed. 

"Damn rat thinks I'll cheat him out of the scraps he hides for breakfast, if he doesn't wake up to eat them in the middle of the night." 

"There's no turning some men civilised," Angel Eyes judges, and what in another man would be cause for a fistful of lead, Tuco's willing to let slide here. Why quarrel with Angel's pose, his crazy transitions between sybaritic luxury one day and sleeping in ditches the next? No skin off his nose, it's all the same to him to see them gallop off into the distance, hesitate a while, come back to him with fondness the more wholesome for its unnamed certainty. "A fortune in gold coins and bank drafts, what keeps us moving on the Western trails? The sure and certain knowledge that it's the motion that keeps us going. Tie any of us down, respectable citizen, mayor in a village, we'll tie our own nooses for fear of our own dark." 

"Don't know about that," Blondie says, even and sweet as the drippings off a lamb (why should the drovers mock shepherds the way they do, veal is tough boots compared to the flesh off a toddling lamb). 

"I do," Tuco says, ostentatiously rubbing the scarred relic of one such adventure. "And I say, it's nonsense. You'd sooner catch me diving headfirst in a pigpen, then court death _that _way again." 

There's such a long moment when Angel's seeking to devour him with eyes, imploring for the mystery he hasn't found in a hundred gun fights- it's because those black gloved hands are too slick and ready for the job, Tuco's sure. To go west, to search excitement through bloodshed only to find expertise dampening down all fear, he can guess how weary that might turn. 

Just like the weariness of the monastery, creeping into bones like fever. _Hey Pablo,_

(he's taught himself to choke out a handful of English words, the remnant training of endless wanted posters and big brassy words about himself. But the posters are never in Spanish.)

_hop you be Good. We ride to Sedalia, me + Blonde + _(he's not sure what that word is, so draws a rough tiny angel, its dress dotted with eyes). _Not hungry. 1 gunfight, Blonde took him and (Angel) laffed like crazy. _

These scrabbly English words, they're no good. How's he supposed to tell about the fine way Blondie drew the bastard on, teasing with silences in a way that'd make a whore jealous, to bring what was festering into the blazing sunlight of a duel? How to explain to a man of god that it was a fair death, bought and paid for the moment those words were said, that a rat like him smelled worse than any plantation slave- well, what was he supposed to do? But he gets a certain sinking feeling, remembering the hard-ass calm of his brother's eyes. Things don't mean enough in a monastery, or maybe too much. 

_Pray for me, brother. Tuco _

(It hurts some that he can't put his whole name here, but it won't fit and anyway he's not sure how to spell all of it.)

"So what is this forbidden correspondence?" Angel is asking Blondie, sharp and curious as ever. It's a good thing, the way Angel pays attention. Sometimes him and Blondie, they get caught up like any moldy cardsharps, so focused on the hand that they don't notice the hotel's caught fire around their ears- that's the time you need an Angel Eyes, more than the gunfights even. 

"You might call it an old love," Blondie replies, lightly as though he's saying the same as "more eggs please" or "who's got the tinder box"- Tuco doesn't need even to look, to guess the wracked confusion crossing Angel's face. Or maybe Angel looks the same as always and it's just him with his mouth open, dammit. He shuts it again quickly. 

There gets to be a charge in the air during a thunderstorm, which is the same as that building up here, and with touchy Angel Eyes involved it's much more likely to end on the business end of a gun- not unless this story's a good story, a damn-near miraculous escapade- 

(_c'mon, Blondie, c'mon, show me you've learned a trick from me about covering your own ass on a windy day)_

"Theatre," Blondie says, with a sour twist to his mouth; and the spell's broken. "A man back in California, he told me once I'd make a good actor. Hustled me out of a little cash to introduce me around a few theatres - I wasn't stupid, I could see how there might be some greasing of palms there. Did a couple auditions."

Angel Eyes has the blank look of a man who's been handed a photograph of himself fucking a sheep in a wild drunken stupor (now that'd been a funny hustle, but even more dangerous than the noose. And Blondie never liked hauling the herd around anyway, said it was a disgrace). Hard to know what to make of that. 

"One time I left my vest. I doubled back for it, and heard them talking about what a ridiculous fool I was. Thinking I could play when I had too much height and too big a throat and too soft a voice- well, I gave it up as a bad job and quit the whole thing. Came east." 

Blondie's got it now, Tuco realises with comfort, tone not too sour or sorrowful but dryly appreciative. "Man wore a cloth coat patched in so many colours it looked like Joseph's. Every now and then I send that theatre a good long scribe, telling about what a fine time I'm having out east. Earning two hundred thousand dollars, a few morsels like that to make them sit up and regret it." 

Sounds good, plausible. Sounds too much like it's going to shatter in a second, two-

Tuco knocks Blondie flat with the edge of his palm, the usual preclude to one of their rougher tumble sessions. "Some kind of revenge that is, you don't let your friends share? I, Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez, would like to tell this cock-of-the-heap to go to hell also. All those words I can't send to Pablo, that are thirsting for a way out!" 

"I might also wish to join in on that," Angel says, stripping off his gloves with a tidy meticulousness that's about to be belied by his eager flesh. "Nothing like spelling out Latin insults for an audience that won't need them translated." 

Blondie half-raises his head from the dirt, a sparkle like fool's gold back in his eyes. "Idiots. Both of you." 

"You say that again," Tuco croons, grabbing his partner in a hold that's half wrestle and half lust. 

He does. 


End file.
